Adrien's POV
The Moreau dining room had never felt smaller.
A chandelier the size of a carriage swung overhead, throwing fractured light across a table set for twelve, though only six of us sat there. My mother presided at the head as if she were chairing a board meeting. Silver gleamed, crystal shone, the roses in their vase were perfect to the point of suffocation.
And every word felt staged for effect.
"Adrien." Her voice was smooth, cool, cutting through the clatter of forks. "It has been a difficult week in the press. Difficult, but not irreparable."
She didn't look at me when she said it. Her gaze skimmed instead to Sofia Valmont, seated opposite me, whose smile was the precise shade of polite triumph.
Luc, lounging two seats down, caught my eye with an expression that was half amusement, half warning. He twirled his wine glass like a man with no stake in the war—though we both knew he relished the spectacle.
"I've told Marcus to work on redirecting the narrative," my mother continued, as though I were one of her assistants. "But narrative only goes so far. Image, Adrien, is flesh and blood. Who we are seen beside. Who we allow into this family."
There it was. The blade slipped from its sheath.
Sofia's eyes found mine, luminous with an elegance curated over generations. She played her role effortlessly, speaking only when invited, laughing softly at Luc's remarks, her posture immaculate. Every detail whispered legacy.
And all I could think of was Nora—too honest for this room, too vivid for this table. She would have hated the roses for being scentless, hated the silence that wasn't silence at all but judgment wearing pearls.
My fork scraped porcelain. The sound was sharper than I intended.
"I wasn't aware my private life required a vote," I said evenly.
Luc smirked into his glass. "Everything in this family requires a vote, cousin. You know that."
My mother's smile didn't falter, but her eyes were winter. "You are not a private man, Adrien. Not anymore. Your life reflects the dynasty. Which is why we must be certain you are… wise in your choices."
Sofia lowered her gaze demurely, as though the conversation wasn't designed in her favor. She was too polished to gloat outright, but the satisfaction in the room was almost tangible.
I leaned back, letting silence stretch, letting them wonder whether I would bend. The truth sat hot in my chest: I had already bent. I bent the moment I kissed Nora. The moment I wanted more.
"I am wise in my choices," I said at last. My mother's brow lifted, waiting. I left it there—ambiguous enough to keep the peace, dangerous enough to be true.
Dinner continued. Toasts were made. Deals were referenced, heirs weighed in subtle looks. But I could barely taste the food. My thoughts were already elsewhere—at Nora's door, at the memory of her breath against my skin, at the certainty blooming in me that I could not, would not, give her up.
When we rose from the table, Luc fell into step beside me. He clapped a hand to my shoulder with mock camaraderie.
"Careful, cousin," he murmured, voice low enough for only me. "They don't like it when you bring storms into glass houses. But then again…" His grin widened, predatory. "Storms are so very entertaining."
I should have shrugged him off. Instead, I walked out into the Paris night with the uneasy knowledge that Luc had scented blood—and that Nora, unknowingly, had just been placed on the family's chessboard.
The battlefield had shifted. My mother had drawn her line, Sofia was in position, and Luc had begun circling like a vulture. But beneath all of it, one truth had settled in me, immovable: Nora wasn't just a complication—she was the choice I could no longer unmake.